Dark Mirror by Barry Maitland Read Free Book Online Page B

a visit; apparently it had happened before. ‘Just last month,’ he said. ‘It’s the terrorist thing, I know, but really, you’ve got no need to worry about us. You’ll see.’ They were working late that night on an order, and he’d be available whenever they called.
    The industrial estate lay within a curve of the Grand Union Canal, beyond which the elevated M4 emitted a low traffic roar into the night. Kathy pulled the car into a parking bay in front of the doors of the offices and showrooms, whose windows were lit from within. Pip looked down the darkened flank of the big sheds to their left and gave a pout of disappointment.
    ‘Aw, I thought they’d have a few sparklers going, at least.’
    Mr Pigeon bustled out in answer to their ding on the counter bell. He looked as if they’d caught him in the middle of a crisis, and he spoke quickly, the glow of perspiration on his bald head. He barely glanced at their ID. ‘We’ve got a lot on this month, and several big productions next weekend.’
    ‘Really? I thought it’d be a quiet time for you—away from November the fifth, I mean.’
    ‘Oh no!’ Mr Pigeon chuckled at her ignorance. ‘It’s not just Guy Fawkes night for us, you know. We’re doing functions all the year round—weddings, public events, garden parties, funerals, celebrations of all kinds.’ He handed Kathy several brochures from the desk.
    ‘Funerals?’
    ‘Oh indeed. What better way to go than in a blaze of glory in the night sky above your assembled friends.’
    ‘You mean you pack their ashes into . . .?’
    ‘Rockets, Roman candles, giant catherine-wheels. Some want lots of whizzes and bangs, and others prefer a quieter, more contemplative presentation.’
    ‘I didn’t know that. And you manufacture these special fireworks to order?’
    ‘That’s right. Our run-of-the-mill stuff all comes from China now. Well, that’s the way of things these days, isn’t it? The great days of British fireworks are past, I’m afraid—Brock’s, Phoenix, Britannia. You have to specialise now.’
    ‘Did you say Brock’s? My boss’s name is Brock.’
    ‘Really? Well, maybe he’s related to the fireworks family. Theirs was the oldest fireworks company in Britain. They dazzled Queen Victoria at the Crystal Palace.’
    ‘But now you specialise?’
    ‘Quite. We have our own design studio, our own laboratory for devising precisely the right mixtures, and our own specialty fabrication workshop. It’s all top quality, and highly secure, believe me. We’ve had Special Branch, MI5, you name it—and Workplace Health and Safety, of course, all the time. They’ve picked this place apart. Well, it’s only to be expected nowadays. When I was a boy I could pop down to my local chemist and buy concentrated acids, fuse wire, any kind of chemical compound I wanted. Why, when I was a lad, the sight of a schoolboy marching down thestreet carrying a .303 wouldn’t raise a murmur, unless he had long hair—then, outrage! But now, the slightest hint of anything that goes bang . . .’
    ‘Yes. Actually we’re taking a different line. It’s not the things that go bang we’re interested in, Mr Pigeon. It’s more the things that make you sick—poisons. Do you carry any of them?’
    ‘Poisons? Oh, well.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Yes, of course we do. Acids, phosphorus compounds, copper salts . . .’
    ‘Arsenic?’
    ‘Yes, we have that too. But all those chemicals are subject to the same security procedures as the explosives. I mean, short of a full-blown assault on the place, there’s no way anyone could get at our stocks of either raw materials or finished product. I told you, your people have been over the place with a fine-tooth comb. If you like I can show you the protocols, the security cameras, the locks and alarms, the inventory audits . . .’
    He took them into his office and offered them the reports prepared by security consultants, compliance certificates from the local authority,